Did You Get My New Shoes?

I was at the office with my business partner, Patrick. We’d been work colleagues for 10 years and friends for 30. He was headed to his parents house. I was headed out with my husband, Fred, to a storytelling event. I was jazzed. I love storytelling. 

I needed to call my dad, Bob, before leaving. After my mom died, I had become his primary caregiver since my siblings lived out of state. He was in Rehab at, well; let’s call it, Movenant Crillage. They once kept my father suspended for 45 minutes in a poop crane. Doubt that’s what it’s called. My dad weighed 300 pounds so no wee lass or beefy broad could help him on to a commode. Instead, they’d strap him in to this contraption, lift and crank him over to a toilet. Imagine a giant version of one of those games where you try really hard to get the claw on the stuffed zebra, so you drop it in just the right spot. Like that. Except for a person. Equal parts freaking genius and utter humiliation. Some aid forgot about him. His call button wasn’t working; so there he hung, long enough to develop sores on his thighs. 

Rehab was lasting a few months. We knew now that he wasn’t headed back to his retirement community. He was off to a nursing home. “It’d be cheaper to put me in a pine box,” he’d say. Or “Just drop me at the loading dock of the VA.”  My dad was always making light of things. Always joking. He was also obsessed with leaving his kids his meager savings. He was always putting others first. 
       Like he’d load up on candy and pop for the kids that worked where he lived. At the end of their shifts they’d stop by. “Now be sure to grab yourself a Snickers and a Pepsi from the riffy, Tony” he’d say. Or, “I got some of them little Pringles cans you like, Sarah!” When he’d see me, he’d say, “I have to stop doing that. I’m spending your inheritance.” 
       I’d push back. “It’s fine. I want you here long after your money runs out. We all do.”

Then he’d grimace and growl as if I said a horrible thing. It was this weird wheezing sound he’d make when his stress level went up.  It was a sound I’d heard my whole life occasionally accompanied with swearing, usually after misplacing his glasses... a wheezy, stressy sound followed by, “asshole-son-of-a-bitch”.  We all knew he didn’t want to spend more money on his care. He and I had had a long talk about it days before. We all wanted him to have the best care.  My dad, however, was going to decide where he would end up. And he did. 

The next day I had to bring him to the foot doctor. I called him to confirm details. I knew he’d be irritated because I hadn’t bought his new shoes yet. He asked every time we talked if I’d gotten them. He didn’t HAVE to have them before the appointment, so they weren’t a priority for me. But they were for him. I wouldn’t say I was a great caregiver.

I called.  We chatted briefly about my day, and then he said, “Did you get my new shoes?” I said, “Not yet. Don’t worry about it. I’ll get them in the morning.” I waited for the stressy sound. He was silent. Then this, seemingly snore sounding sound. Not quite a snore. Not not a snore. “What was that? Dad, don’t be an ass. I’ll get your shoes. Dad? Dad?” Nothing.

      I hung up and called the main desk. “Can you check on my dad in 111?” Some lady put me on hold for what seemed like an eternity. I called back. “Hi, I’m wondering if you found out anything?” “I’m sorry,” the woman said. “We’re dealing with an emergency right now.  Can you call back in a few?” “Would this emergency be for Room 111?” I asked. “Yes. Yes it is. We’ve called an ambulance.” 
       Seriously, Movenant Crillage!?

I didn’t have to explain to Patrick that he had to go with me to my dad’s. I called my husband who decided, since I had Patrick with me, that he’d head to the venue to try and sell our seats. He had paid $60 for two tickets. Oh sure, my dad was in some kind of trouble, but this THIS was also an emergency. I knew the kind of emotional trauma unused tickets would be for my husband, so I gave him the okay.

I was greeted at Movenant by Nurse Nancy.  Not her real name. I didn’t like her. It wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t mean. Just annoying. She spoke in a flat affect about inane things. “My cousin went to Davenport. Did you go to Davenport, Terry?” Terry. She'd call me, Terry. Grrrr. 
      She took my hand and led me down the hall to my dad’s room. Inside my head I screamed. “Oh God, don’t let him be dead. Please God... that woman... that voice... cannot be the one to say, your father is dead.”

As we got closer to the room, I could hear the flat line of a heart monitor and a team of EMT’s. He didn’t have a DNR Order (Do Not Resuscitate) at the home. I'd never thought about it. Like I said, not the best caregiver. 
       I wriggled my hand from Nurse Nancy’s and stepped in to the room, Patrick at my side. 
       From a corner I yelled, “It’s okay dad. I love you. You can let go. Patrick joined in. “Bob, You’ve been a great dad. It’s okay.” They pumped him full of something so I yelled. “Fight it, Dad. Fight it!” 
       At this point, Patrick got really confused. “Fight it?" I thought she wanted him to live. He half-heartedly tossed out a "Fight it, Bob? I guess.” 
      Then I yelled, “Fight the medication, dad. I know you want to go. It’s okay.” “Ahhh…now that makes sense” Patrick thought and added confidently, “It’s okay, Bob. Just let go.”

Then I heard something medical like, “Give him 2 more CC’s”. 
       I had always heard that loved ones will come to get you and take you to the light, so I said… LOUDLY… “Mom, if you’re there, will you please come get dad and take him to the light? Please.”

       Now you need to know my mom was tough on my dad. Tough on all of us, but especially my dad. Let’s just say, after she died I asked him if he missed her and he said, “Well, you know how you feel after you take a really big dump, how it’s so good to just get it out of your system.” Sure, my dad was playing for the laugh, but there was some truth in it. Still, my mom and he shared complicated love her for 49 years. So I thought surely, this is the time for her to be there for him.

            Again, I implored, “Mom, will you PLEASE take dad to the Light?” SECONDS later a paramedic says, “We got a pulse.” And I screamed “Holy shit! You just scared him back in to his body. Go away, mom. Go away!”  
       I looked over to notice every EMT staring at me. Mortified. I laughed and laughed and shrugged. “It’s just my family. It’s fine.” I was even laughing as the room grew silent. His pulse weakened. Then stopped. They didn’t try and revive him again. He was gone.

My dad’s death was so like his life. Had I not been on the phone with him when he died, I would have been certain it was Movenant’s fault. That he had pushed a call button and no one responded. He was protecting them. My dad. Always looking out for others.  And I laughed… he always made me laugh. And he would find a way to do so even while he was dying. Fred sold the tickets. Face Value. Maybe he had something to do with that too. And, most importantly, he left me with profound last words. Not “Rosebud.” Not “Forgive them for they know not what they do.” But… “Did you get my new shoes?” Followed by the death rattle, as I now understand.

I’ll admit, I often wonder what would have happened if I had gotten them? I probably would have blamed myself knowing I shocked him into a heart attack because I finally did something he asked me to do when he wanted me to do it. But I hadn’t. And he died. And it was sad and heartfelt and funny and fast. As death goes, a pretty good exit for a pretty good guy.

Shutter the Doors

I was raised Catholic. I'm grateful for my Catholic upbringing. I believe that I am a more compassionate, socially conscious person because of what I learned throughout my Catholic education.  I was thrilled that when I married, a Catholic priest (one of the finest men I’ve ever known) was the one to officiate the ceremony.

That said, I am not currently a practicing Catholic. I've never been a fan of its patriarchy. By the time I was 7 or 8, I was already asking questions that indicated Catholicism was not going to be the path for me. Despite my leaving the church unofficially by age 15 or so (going to Meijer with my older sister instead of Saturday night mass) and officially by age 20ish, I have always been proud to say that I was raised Catholic. I have been proud even though I knew there were a few creepy priests out there. We all knew. I remember my dad talking about the priests to avoid when I was a teen. I remember him talking with other grown-ups about it. There were jokes. The grown-ups in my life, devout Catholics, told jokes about pedophile priests.  JOKES!

Well, now we know there aren't/weren't just a few. There are countless. In the last few days the church has been in the news. The Pope is trying to deal with it. I like this Pope. But try as he may to help remedy this situation, I think DRASTIC changes need to be made. Honestly, I think this is the only solution. I think they ought to shutter their doors til they figure it out. I think they need to wipe the slate clean. Start over. Re-educate, re-build. Zero Tolerance. And PRISON for every one of these creep-meisters.

Listen to the victims… the children, the adults, the nuns. Their stories are horrifying. I am listening to them because the compassion I learned in this very church teaches me that their stories must be heard and actions to support them must be taken.

There is so much good in the Catholic Church. There are so many amazing Catholics. I'm related to a slew of them in my own family and by marriage. I don't envy them for all the truths they are hearing right now. But this is a crisis. Of epic proportion. It has been for decades, even centuries I assume. Words will not heal. Only action will. 

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The Search for a Green Heron

I had been to Sepulveda River Basin once before and saw a Green Heron in the distance, but couldn't get a picture. She was just too difficult to find in the lens. From far away the Heron's color palette of green, chestnut and dark gray blend all too well with the thick flora of a marsh or riverbed. A Green Heron is an amazing bird. She's beautiful, but not in a traditional way. 

Yesterday, when I arrived at the Basin, I thought, "I really would love to see that Green Heron today." I walked for nearly two hours. I saw Black Phoebes and Common Yellowthroats and Western Bluebirds and a ridiculous number of ducks (video on that later), but no Green Heron. I had been walking and photographing for nearly two hours and three miles. Note: Spent waaaayyyy to long trying to get a decent picture of a bushtit (more on that later too). 

Anyway, I had to be some place at 11am which meant I had about 15 minutes to get back to my car and on the road. I was a wee bit disappointed that I hadn't seen the little guy/gal. I headed back to the car through the meadow version of the walk and thought, "Nah... what ya doin' Thome, give it one more try. Walk along the water." I came round the first bend and I'll be damned, there she was. And we hung out together for a good five minutes before some loud Russian women carrying purses and wearing short heels and dress slacks (so random in a park-like setting) scared them off.

But it was satisfying. So satisfying. Made for a nice start to Father's Day when one no longer has a living father.

Life of Many Colors (a contemplation on the Facebook Feed Birthday Wishes)

Joseph had that splendid coat.  I have this life.  I find myself still contemplating birthday wishes from the weekend.  I did my best to offer a “thumbs up” as each came through and then on Sunday, in between packing and closing up shop for a month long return home to GR from LA, I added a “thank you”.  I wanted to do this to take in the names of the people that took the time to offer up the Happy Birthday wish to me.  It gave me the opportunity to reflect on how varied my life has been. 

My feed had well wishes from close high school friends and distant high school friends, old work colleagues, past employees, old board member friends, family friends, friends of friends, improv friends, actor friends, childhood friends, film friends, LA friends, Michigan friends, Chicago friends, old Rotarian friends, writer friends, Michigan theatre friends, LA theatre friends, LaughFest friends, my closest friends, my cousins, my husband’s relatives, my husband’s friends, my siblings, my siblings friends and even my hubby. 

Now my sister Mary Kay once said to me, “Teresa, you can’t call a person a friend unless you go to a movie with them.”  That’s her bar for friendship. I used to say something like, “Oh I ran in to my friend Carla the other day.” And she’d say, “Who’s Carla? I’ve never heard of Carla.  She’s not a friend-friend.  Would you go to a movie with her?”  Mary Kay isn’t always annoying. 

While I’ve never believed her definition to be true, her inane wisdom occasionally rolls around in the deep recesses of my brain… especially at times like these when that Facebook feed is filled with well wishes from “friends”. I thought I’d look up the definition of “friend”. It’s a NOUN (a person whom one knows and whom one has a bond of mutual affection, typically exclusive of sexual or family relations) AND a VERB (to add someone to a list of contacts on a social networking website.)  How about a third definition? I’ve decided the Facebook birthday wishes are a combination of the two: a VOUN, if you will, or a NERB perhaps (someone with whom you’ve had an interaction in your life either significant or minimal that takes 10 seconds in their day to actively create a touch point for you on the anniversary of your birth.)

So by Mary Kay’s definition, my feed is not made up of friends. I certainly wouldn’t think to go to movies with the majority of the people on my Facebook feed - unless he/she asked, of course. But I’m guessing everybody on my feed would have an opinion about a movie I attended, if they felt compelled to respond to a post. And that response would be a reminder of who that person is / was in my life. Some of the people may have friended me, or I them, because we did a show together or had an amazing 20-minute conversation at a party about the state of politics in our country or he/she dated my third cousin once removed and they friended me and I didn’t have the heart to not accept the friendship because he/she has a photo of bird as their profile picture.

Regardless of how they… how YOU… ended up on my wall, you represent something in my life, some era, some moment in time that has led to me become the person I am. Your presence on my feed helped evoke a memory for me – maybe vague, maybe clear. But both, I believe, mean something.    

Thank you, friend, for helping me to remember how many diverse paths I have walked in this life and for making my birthday feel meaningful. 

The Skirball Fire

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Last night I, and hundreds of thousand other Angelinos, received an unsettling Emergency Alert that stated: “Strong winds over night creating extreme fire danger. Stay alert. Listen to authorities.”  To add to the drama of it all, I was on the phone with my sister and the alert disconnected us.  It freaked me out.

While I am 5 miles south of the Skirball fire, I took the alert seriously. I tend to go to the worst-case scenario quickly, but felt only a 5% chance of any fire damage.  This is real progress (if you know me).  I was, and still am, less concerned about the fire spreading our way than about air quality.  I’m fighting a bit of an upper respiratory and thought I might want to be prepared to get out quickly for that reason.

Like thousands of others in a more dangerous situation than me I decided to pack a bag.  Again, not for the fire concern so much as for the air quality.

I grabbed my favorite carry-on and two roomy over the shoulder bags and commenced packing.  The first thing I grabbed was my mother’s 1953 scrapbook that detailed her trip to LA, followed by my passport.  Next, the book my siblings made me for my birthday and the dress I bought in NYC made by a local artist.  The coat my mother-in-law gave me that gets compliments every time I wear it came next.  Then contacts and orthotics and a handful of naturopathic medicines (because I’ve spent so damn much money on them and my husband would plotz.)  Next, my iPad mini and hard drive.  I’d have to make room for the platform sandals with the black and white spotted heels because they were one of kind.  The other 20 pairs of shoes would have to be left behind.  There just wasn’t enough room.  As I packed, I considered that I could get a larger bag but there was something about having to make real choices that, in the moment, felt like a very important exercise.

Because I had time to do this, I thoughtfully considered each decision.  I like this sweater, but it’s served me well.  It needn’t be packed.  What about purses? Just the mustard one… because mustard.  And the embroidered one… because antique.  I grabbed a pair of jeans and a pair of pants and the dress that the husband bought me…because husband buying a dress for me! And a few sweaters, tees, shirts, underwear, socks and a bra.

I looked about the room and in drawers to see what else I needed to grab. I still had room in my bag and I was saving jewelry for last. My mom’s glasses, circa 1960, that I had my prescription put in to.  The Winnie the Pooh wallet that my friend Patrick got me.  I’d leave behind the note cards I’d bought recently and the hats I’ve bought along the way and all the paperwork on my desk.  I left the Route 66 salt and pepper shakers I hadn’t open yet and the stacks of books on my bedside.  But I snapped a picture, so I could remember them.  However, I did throw my Autobiography of a Yogi and my Sibley Bird book in the shoulder bag. 

I stared for some time at the “altar” I keep on top of my dresser.  My mom’s nurse’s cap.  My dad’s bowtie.  The teddy bear from Tom Balke.  My owl from Oaxaca.  My Pope Francis bobblehead gifted by my sister, Anne.  I decided to leave them all.  I thought if there was a fire, or total destruction, they needed to go too.  There was something so magnificently cleansing in having detachment from these objects; knowing they served a purpose for me but that one-day I would and could let them go.

I spent a good deal of time straightening out my jewelry and sorting in “to keeps” and “not keeps” piles.  The keeps could be organized by “Gifts from Nana and Sue Ziegler.  Gifts from Jene Stella.  Handmade and purchased gifts from friends and family. A few items picked up on travels. And the earrings I bought from my friend Pascale last year that are just fabulous.”  All of the jewelry I wanted fit in to a small bag. 

The entire process from alert to packed took me less than an hour. 

Looking around the room I tried to understand the decisions I made.  Everything I could see was a decision of something not to take.  And there was a lot of “stuff.”  I was happy that I could winnow it down to so few items considering I’ve spent a lifetime accumulating (and some three years – for that’s how long I’ve been in LA).  Surely I have more sentimental items at my home in Grand Rapids – but that’s “more” as in content not “more” as in value.  If I had to do this exercise there, I think the result would be the same. 

After I was done, I took the dog, for a walk.  The Santa Ana winds were starting to blow again.  The air was cold, but the wind was warm.  I’ve never felt such a thing. Or at the least, never noticed it.  The winds that were making it so much worse for the fire fighters were wrapping me with a comfort that is indescribable. 

I have been incredibly sad of late.  Each day the political news disheartens me and each new disaster makes me feel like we are closing in on some apocalyptic times.  But those winds… those winds that were making me feel safe and comforted while 5 miles away were bringing terror and destruction showed me the duality of this life and the importance of detachment that I could never have understood otherwise.

No Photo To Capture the Moment

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I have been hankering to recreate this idyllic walk I took with Eddie when I first moved to LA two years ago. It always left me with such a romantic notion of the city. Oceanside, beach walk, lollygagging, sightseeing, perfection!

Needing a boost to the mental state, I decided to head over to Santa Monica last night to do just that.

About two minutes in to the drive, I realized I'd left my cell at home. Should I go back for it? Surely there will be photo ops. And the thought actually crossed my mind, “but if I don't take pictures... did it really happen?” Seriously, I am so attached to my phone to capture moments as if to prove they happened (and out of concern for forgetting the memory.) I opted to keep driving. You don't own me, Phone!

The drive there was quick and easy. This is always exciting (especially considering that an hour earlier when I picked up Eddie from doggie daycare, my 1.5 mile drive home took 30 minutes.) I made it to the beach in under 15 minutes. Woohoo!

I then spent 20 minutes looking for parking. In this time I believe I saw 87 cars pull out of spots and 87 cars pull in to them right in front of me. At 88… Finally! Success! Poor Eddie was going nuts. "Why did you drive me to this fascinating place only to drive in circles?" Oh, just you wait, Eddie, I thought. You will remember! You will love it.

We got out of the car. The place was hopping. It was fantastic. Immediately, I saw a disheveled man approach with a fairly large mutt by his side. I tend to cross away from other dogs because Eddie can be a barker, but there wasn't room to get away. Instead, I tucked in closer to a fence. Then I heard Disheveled Man say, "You got 5 seconds to get that dog outta here lady. This here is a federally trained dog." First, of all, I have no idea what that means? Is he rooting out terrorists on the beach? Checking the immigration status of other dogs? A tax collector? Anywho, his tone was menacing and disturbing. I pulled Eddie to the other side of the sidewalk and gracefully maneuvered out of the way. Once passed me I heard him mutter, "Damn dogs. Damn Women. Damn Dogs. Damn Women." Perhaps, this wasn't going to be as idyllic as I hoped.

We headed down to the beach.  Eddie was in sniff heaven.  So many new smells.  I couldn’t wait to get him on the sand.  When he had sand on his feet before, he went crazy. He ran in circles, back and forth, sand flying in the air as if trying to express to me that sand is the best thing in the world and how could I have kept it from him.  It was one of my favorite moments in life.  I don’t have kids. I imagine it’s what one feels like watching their kid walk for the first time.  Boundless joy. When we got to the sand he ran straight to it, stepped in and pooped.  That’s it.  Just poop.  Then he stepped back on the sidewalk.  I tried to walk him over to another area of sand.  He dipped his toes in and then looked up at me as if to say, “Can we move on? Sand is so two years ago.”

I headed towards the pier, passed a few tourists and an enclave of homeless dudes who seemed to be tucking in for the night.  And, believe it or not, Disheveled Man and Federal Dog were there too. What the what?  He obviously took a different route, but it was a bit creepy.  G-men, you know? Two skateboarding teens whisked by.  Eddie hates skateboarders.  He went nuts.  Barking like a mad dog.  I hoped the Federal Dog Agent wouldn’t come after us. Surely he’d put Eddie in the clinker. I got Eddie to calm down. We walked a few feet and two more skateboarders whisked by.  Bark. Bark. Bark.  Again, I got him to calm down. At that point we’d arrived to an area where a handful of skateboarders were sharing tricks of the trader.  Bark. Bark. Bark.  This was walk was neither, calm, nor idyllic.  It was stressful and annoying.

Did I mention that I was wearing new shoes? At this point the buckle had shifted and was digging a hole in to my ankle that seemed as if it would leave me permanently damaged.  I opted to head up to the street and back to the car for a change of shoes.  Plus, beyond the hotels there were waterfront homes.  I’d noticed them on one of my 27 passes looking for parking.

We headed up.  I felt bad.  There were mostly concrete walls lining the shortcut walk back.  Concrete walls aren’t nearly that exciting to sniff as peed upon trees and bushes.  I changed my shoes.  Luckily, my gym bag was in the trunk.  I headed to see new sights. If I couldn’t recreate my last trip here with Eddie, we coulds make some new memories.

Halfway there, the Mexican dinner I had started to move in ways that my intuition suggested, “This is not going to end well if you keep going.”  I did the pep step back to the car.  Happily, the traffic back was quiet and we made it back quickly.  The whole excursion took less than an hour with a little more than 30 minutes of drive time. (And I made it back in time… if you know what I mean.)

Now I mentioned that I took this adventure for two reasons – to recreate my first trip to the beach with Eddie, Idyllic. Romantic.  And to lift my mental state.

First, in the moment, I was stressed and overwhelmed. Eddie barking, feeling threatened, horrible parking, etc. But in the end, it didn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. I experienced a slice of life in LA and I still pinch myself that I can do that. Thether it turns out the way I hope for or not, I am still living new moments and that keeps me grateful.

Second, I also headed out on this little adventure in part because I was feeling a little down. And more than a little tired.  I needed to clear my head. I’m cutting down on caffeine and I’ve also been beating myself up lately because I haven’t been able to get any personal writing done.  Oh, I’ve done a TON of writing. Work related. But that’s it.  I feel like if I’m to be a good writer, I have to do both.  And I haven’t. So I beat myself up. It’s a pattern.  And as I drove home last night, I thought, I’m so grateful I forgot my damn phone. It’s forced me to write something personal. It’s given me the chance to do the very thing I was beating myself up for not doing.  Turns out “not having my phone to capture the moment,” was the exact thing I needed to capture the moment.

Despite the seeming chaos of our brief little adventure, I’m sure I’ll need to do it again. I’m sure Eddie would be game. He had a great time.  He’s a dog.  Besides, you never know what story lies in wait. Maybe the next time it will be idyllic and romantic.  Gotta keep hoping.

Ten Minutes Prep Time

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Tonight I baked for the first time in a long time.  Like I don’t remember the last time I baked. In my lifetime I’ve made Christmas cookies a handful of times...Tastee bars for a party or two. And I’ve made my mom’s chocolate pie, but that’s really just stirring and pouring and putting in a store bought crust, not baking.  But since I’ve been binge watching “The Great British Baking Show” on flights lately, I’ve had a real hankering to bake something.  Plus, our neighbor gave us a ginormous zucchini that he grew in his garden.  This was going to happen. I found a recipe on-line for Gluten Free, Vegan Zucchini Muffins.  It said that the prep time was 10 minutes and the baking time was 20 minutes.  Perfect!  I had a friend coming over for dinner at 7pm and it was 4pm.  I could do this.

First I went to Whole Foods. I picked up all of the items I needed for the recipe (which was nearly every item.)  Gluten Free Baking Mix, Baking Soda, Baking Powder, Vanilla Extract, Pumpkin Spice, and Walnuts.  Turns out I had the coconut oil and coconut palm sugar.  Woohoo.  For some reason I also bought unneeded cinnamon. "Oh well," I thought. "This is going to go so well, I'll bet I'll use it for another recipe another day." The trip to the store took about 20 minutes.  Then I popped in to Big Lots around the corner to buy a muffin tray. 10 minutes.  Total drive time between both locations and to my home (Friday LA traffic… 2.5 mile radius) 25 minutes.

Okay!  5pm, no problem.  Ten Minutes prep… and go! 

I opened the recipe. “Things you will need,” I read.  Oops.  I don’t have a mixer.  I Google “Can you use a blender instead of a mixer?” Read 5 different answers. Get overly consumed by the number of differing opinions.  Decide I better mix by hand.

“Mix dry ingredients in small bowl.”  Okay, but where’s a measuring cup?  This is the home where I rent a room.  My roommate is out.  I can’t find a measuring cup.  Time’s a tickin’.  I decide to just use one of those glass measuring cups…  the kind best used for liquids. It’s a pain in the arse to measure out 1 cup of flour in a 2 cup measuring cup used for pouring, but I get it figured out.  I easily find the measuring spoons.  I add all of the dry mix items together, look up and 20 minutes has passed.

I’ve used up my entire 10-minute prep time and half my bake time and I’ve only mixed four ingredients. 

I mix the eggs until they are light and go to add the coconut oil.  “Oh shit!” I think. I’ve got to melt this.  I find a small pan and melt the coconut oil.  While I’m doing that I cut and grate the zucchini.  Then I realize the coconut oil is bubbling.  “Oh shit!” Did I burn it? Can you burn it?  It will have to cool a bit now so it doesn’t cook the eggs.  I feel really smart even if its not true.  That sounds like something they would say on “The Great British Baking Show.”  “Crikey, she almost had the winner, but Edwina’s coconut oil cooked her eggs.”  I add the sugar to the eggs and find that I’m doing an exceptional job of mixing despite the fact that I’m not using a mixer.  I fold in all the ingredients (after letting the coconut oil cool for a few minutes). 

I look at the recipe one last time, to make sure I didn’t miss anything.  The picture shows these lovely little muffins in these adorable little paper cups.  “Wait? What the hell?  Paper cups? My mom always had those in the house.  Those little muffin cups.  Damnit all to hell.”  I don’t have those. 

I have to run to the store… again.

This time I’ll go to Von’s.  It’s close.  I’ll just walk.  And half run.  I don’t want to mess up my neck from a recent chiropractor appointment.  “Don’t run! He said.” Time’s still a tickin’.  I go to grab my wallet in the jacket I was wearing the last time I was at the store (less than an hour earlier).  It was in a pocket.  Not anymore. I can’t find it.  I look all over my room.  In my kitchen.  Three times I look in the jacket pocket.  I go out to my car. I look inside and out.  I consider all of the things I’m going to have to cancel.  I ponder whether or not I can borrow cash from my roommate to make it through the weekend. I wonder how much I’ll need to make it through the weekend.  I wonder how quickly American Express and Visa can replace my cards. I consider that I should call Whole Foods and see if anyone turned in a wallet.  I look one more time in my bedroom. It’s not on my desk. Not on my bedside table.  Not in the chair or on the floor.  I move a notebook that’s on my bed.  There’s my wallet.  Under the notebook?!?! I don’t have a clue how it ended up there, but I’m grateful and I take off out the door running to Von’s.  Well, running then walking… neck adjustment.

I find the muffin papers quickly and head to the Express Checkout.  Each of the two women in front of me have 15 items exactly.  Not less than 15 items.  15.  I hold my one little package of muffin cups out in my hand displaying in such a way as to invite one of them to say, “Oh Gosh, you only have one item? You should go ahead.”  Neither makes the offer.  I pay for my item and head out the door, briskly walking – like mall walker walking.  When I get home I look at the clock. It’s 6:00pm.

I review the recipe one last time.  I haven’t mixed in the walnuts yet but I decide to make a few of them without, so this will work great.  The recipe says to spray the baking tin with Canola Spray.  Hm.  If I’m supposed to spray the pan, why would I need muffin cups?  I Google, “Can you bake muffins without paper cups?” Turns out there are several reasons that argue for and against, but apparently you can.  Realize the picture has nothing to do with the actual recipe.  Realize you’ve gone to the store, on foot, doing your best to not run despite needing to get there and back fast, adding 12 minutes to your prep time, for nothing. 

Pour three muffins in to the canola sprayed tin, add the walnuts and pour the remaining.  I have made enough mix to make 12 small muffins.  Put them on the rack in the oven and set the timer.  6:10pm.  The muffins would be ready at 6:30pm. 

I start dinner, scrapping the idea to make a salad too, because I simply won’t be ready in time.  Besides, we’ll have muffins. 

I check the oven at 15 minutes.  I feel like a contestant on “The Great British Baking Show” who stare intently in to their ovens praying for a rise, praying for consistency, praying he/she will know exactly the right time to remove the baked good. I remember my mom always using a toothpick to see if baked items were done.  I use a fork. I’m feeling good about this.  They have risen.  They look good.  I haven’t been this happy in a while.

When I remove them, I am giddy.  They look perfect.  I can’t wait to eat the first one. I open it and watch the steam escape.  I imagine Mary and Paul pushing the fingers to check consistency.  It's perfect. It's moist. It could have used a bit more pumpkin spice, but by and large, it’s really, really good. 

Friend arrives.  I’m late on completing dinner, but it’s okay, because she’s happy to try the muffins.  She prefers nuts, but since I don’t remember which one’s had the nuts and which didn’t, she’ll just have to guess.  She chooses right. She finds it yummy and even grabs another.  My roommate comes home.  She has a muffin.  She finds it yummy. Even encourages me not to add more pumpkin spice to the next batch.  She thinks they're perfect.

It took 2 hours and thirty minutes to prepare Gluten-Free, Vegan, Zucchini muffins that should have taken thirty. But you know what?  Totally worth it.  Tomorrow I’m making 12 more. Maybe I'll add cinnamon.


NOTE:  This is the recipe - https://alittleinsanity.com/gluten-free-zucchini-bread-recipe/ and I used Pamela's Baking/Pancake Mix